


Bad Influence

by azriona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drinking, How They Met, M/M, Pre-Canon, Smoking, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory Lestrade is a Public Menace in Training, and Mycroft Holmes shouldn’t be half as intrigued as he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Influence

**Author's Note:**

> Written for weholls for the Mystrade Valentine’s Exchange on Tumblr. She requested fluff, Teenlock, or angst. I think I kind of hit all three, and I hope she likes the result! Beta’ed & Brit-picked by wendymr, kizzia, and earlgreytea68 – except for Part 4, which was written after they saw it, and thus they’re absolved of responsibility for any mistakes therein.

_One_

Mycroft wasn’t paying attention, but that wasn’t his fault. He had schoolwork to do, an entire essay due after half-term, and Mr Clark was hardly going to accept, “My brother’s nanny’s sister caught pneumonia and Mummy and Dad were already busy with dinner-parties and so I had to make sure that my brother didn’t set fire to the house” as an excuse for not having completed his work. 

Mr Clark was a reasonable man, but even Mycroft had to admit the truth sounded somewhat farfetched. Nannies didn’t have families of their own, much less need to go take care of them in their convalescence, the idea was completely ridiculous, and Mycroft wanted to shake his parents for not properly vetting her in the first place. A sister, honestly. She’d be wanting to be married next. 

The best thing to do with Sherlock was to take him outside the house, where it was less dangerous if only by the virtue of being less flammable. Then again, the best thing to have done with Sherlock would have been to drown him at birth, but it was six years too late for that. 

Also, Mummy would have been miffed. 

“Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft,” chanted Sherlock, skipping just behind him. “You’re walking too fast, where are we going, I forgot my hat, did you bring a sandwich, Mycroft, the swings are the _other_ way, Mycroft, you’re doing it all wrong.” 

Mycroft stopped so suddenly that Sherlock ran into him and tumbled back down onto the gravel. The smaller boy let out a cry and shook the loose stones from his hands, and glared at his older brother. 

“I have schoolwork to do,” said Mycroft imperiously. “I’m going to sit on that bench _right there_ and do it, and you’re going to go and play over _there_ , and you’re not going to say _anything_ to me until I tell you it’s time to go home.” 

“But, _Mycroft_.” 

“I. Don’t. _Care_ ,” said Mycroft, and marched over to the bench. Sherlock hesitated, and then followed him, in a disturbingly meek and mild manner. It put Mycroft on edge. Mycroft ignored his little brother, and sat on the bench and opened his book. But it was impossible to read with the smaller boy sitting next to him, looking anxious. 

Finally, Mycroft sighed heavily and closed his book. “What?” 

“There’s no one to play with here,” said Sherlock, miserable. 

This was true. The playground was somewhere on the other side of the park; the only things in sight where Mycroft had taken them were the pond, half frozen over, a copse of trees which were so threadbare and tired they wouldn’t even do for firewood, and a garden that was somewhat impatiently waiting for spring. 

“Make someone up,” said Mycroft, irritable and cold and just wanting ten minutes to finish his book. 

Sherlock hopped off the bench and went in the direction of the trees. Mycroft buried his nose in his book with a relieved sigh. 

_One day in the fine summer, he was riding through the park land of a castle which was strange to him. The trees grew dispersedly about the sward--great elms and oaks and beeches--and Lancelot was thinking about Guinevere with a heavy heart._

Ridiculous, thought Mycroft. Lancelot was a fool, there was no point in mooning over a girl, much less a girl who was married to another bloke, and that bloke the _king_. Even if Guinevere did love Lancelot back, there wasn’t anything either of them could _do_ about it, but Mycroft supposed that was the point of the story, that love was completely useless. See what good it did any of them in the book! 

_The lady had said that he ought either to have a wife or a mistress, and Lancelot had been angry. "I can't stop people from saying things if they want to," he had said, "but circumstances make it impossible for me to marry, while I consider that having a mistress is no good."_

“Oi! _Oi_! You can’t do that, you can’t _do_ that!” 

Not even three minutes! Mycroft looked up from his book, annoyed, but didn’t see Sherlock anywhere; it couldn’t have been him doing something no one was meant to do. Instead, he saw another small boy racing across the grass, with an older boy in tow behind him, trying to catch up and failing, despite his longer legs. 

“Yes, I can!” shouted the younger boy. “Watch me!” 

The boy raced toward the pond, and skidded as he slipped on an icy patch of grass. He slid out onto the ice, just a bit, and Mycroft held his breath. 

The ice held. 

“Ha!” crowed the boy as the older boy’s arms gyrated, trying to keep him from falling after him onto the ice. “See? I told you it would hold.” 

“John Watson, get off that ice before you catch your death!” 

“You aren’t the park police!” shouted small John Watson. “I can stay on the ice if I like!” 

“Fine! Fine! Fall in, drown in icy waters, I don’t care! I’m going to sit over there and _watch_ you!” shouted the older boy, and he turned his back on John and marched over to join Mycroft on the bench. 

“Have you ever seen a more annoying brat in your entire life?” demanded the older boy as he sat next to Mycroft. His eyes were flashing and his cheeks were pink from running; his hair was dark brown and flopped over his eyes, and he was tall and thin, maybe two or three years older than Mycroft himself. He didn’t look a thing like John, though; Mycroft didn’t suppose they were brothers. 

“Yes,” said Mycroft, thinking of Sherlock, who was…somewhere. Mycroft wondered if Sherlock had drowned and hadn’t bothered to announce it. A quick glance proved that Sherlock was up a tree, studiously watching John Watson, who was now jumping cautiously on the ice at the edge of the pond. “He’s going to fall in.” 

The older boy snorted. “Serves him right, the brat. At least his sister has the sense to stay inside. Mind if I sit?” 

Mycroft would have liked to say no, but he’d been taught better manners. The other boy had obviously not been taught; he didn’t even wait for Mycroft to respond before sitting down anyway. 

“Whatchoo reading?” 

Mycroft showed him. 

“Ripping book, read it when I was thirteen.” As though he were years older; Mycroft automatically dropped his estimation of the boy’s age. 

“ _I’m_ thirteen,” said Mycroft, just a bit annoyed. 

“Have you got to where Merlin is imprisoned yet?” 

“I’m reading about Lancelot’s adventures.” 

“Is that before or after?” 

“You read it already.” 

“But I don’t remember.” 

“Then you should read it again.” 

“Don’t have the time,” said the boy lazily. “ _Oi! John! Get off the ice_!” 

John’s voice floated back. “Go away, Greg!” 

“I should,” said the newly-named Greg. “But his mother would skin me.” 

Mycroft made a guess. “Cousins?” 

Greg looked impressed. “Yeah, second or third or something, I can’t keep them straight.” 

“Second cousins share great-grandparents; that is, if your parents are first cousins, you are second cousins. Third cousins would share great-great grandparents, so if your parents are second cousins, you would be third cousins. And so forth, but generally speaking, no one uses the terms fourth and fifth cousins, so one could simply term your relationship as _cousins_ and still be accurate.” 

Greg stared at Mycroft and then burst out laughing. “Cor, you’re a bit of a boffin, aren’t you?” 

Mycroft sniffed and put his nose back in his book, which only made the other boy laugh harder. 

“No hard feelings, mate! Suppose that makes John’s mum my second cousin. So he’d be my…third?” 

“Second once removed,” said Mycroft, nose still in his book. 

“Blimey, you do know it all,” said Greg, and stretched out his legs. “Annoying little bugger, though. I had a date with Anna Mulrooney, you know, but no, Mum says I have to take him to the park and let him run around and be _hospitable_. I didn’t ask the kid for tea.” 

Mycroft didn’t say anything, but he did lower his book a little bit. 

“Anna Mulrooney?” 

Greg glanced at him. “You know her?” 

“Her sister has pneumonia,” said Mycroft. “She’s taking care of her. That’s why I’m here, because Anna’s the nanny, so I’m stuck with my brother.” 

“Her sister, eh?” said Greg, and hooted with laughter again. “I knew she was a bit of all right, but I didn’t know how much.” 

“How old _are_ you?” Mycroft blurted out, half shocked and more than half curious. 

“Sixteen if you’re counting,” said Greg, who apparently didn’t mind the rude question one bit. 

Mycroft stared. _Six years_ younger than Anna, and he talked about dating her as casually as one might buy a package of biscuits. Mycroft wasn’t sure if he was more impressed with Greg, or disappointed in Anna. 

“Leave Anna alone,” snapped Mycroft. He had no idea why Greg was so amused, or why there was a funny feeling in the back of his head, but Anna was a part of the Holmes household, and didn’t deserve to be laughed at by the blithering idiot on the bench next to him. 

“Pipe down, I don’t mean nothing,” said Greg casually. His eyes sparkled, and Mycroft frowned. Eyes weren’t meant to _sparkle_ , they were meant to look. Eyes weren’t _stars_ , after all. “I like Anna, I’m not going to impugn her honor. Unless she lets me.” 

Mycroft glared. He had thirteen years of experience with glares, but only a few months of really _meaning_ it, so he hoped the expression came across well. 

“Oh, come off it, you’ve kissed a girl, haven’t you? Thirteen.” Greg didn’t look affected by the glare, though certainly he’d read _something_ in it. 

“Of course,” lied Mycroft. 

Greg grinned at him. Mycroft wasn’t sure if the grin was a patronizing “No you haven’t” or an understanding “then you know what I mean”. 

“Lots of girls where you go to school?” asked Greg, and it was definitely teasing. Mycroft recognized the tone. 

“Thousands,” he muttered, and tried to read his book. 

“And kissed ‘em all, of course.” 

“Not _all_.” 

“Just as well. Nothing’s better than the first kiss.” 

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock in the tree, still observing John, who was kicking the leaves into a pile below. He felt very small and insignificant next to Greg, which was silly and insecure of him. It was somehow worse, knowing it. 

“Why?” he asked finally, showing his hand and not particularly caring. 

Greg stretched out his arms on the bench behind them. “Dunno. Might be the anticipation. Might be the fact that afterwards, it’s all comparison. Thing with kisses, you’re always looking for the next one, just as soon as the kiss is over.” 

Mycroft frowned. “That’s…very un-chivalrous of you.” 

Greg huddled in his coat. “Life ain’t like knights and ladies playing at fighting dragons and saving the damsels in distress. You ask me, Lancelot was a right pillock. What’s the point of saving yourself for a girl who’s married to some other bloke?” 

“He’s in love with her. He’s trying to stay true to her.” 

“Fools, the lot of them,” said Greg firmly. “Love’s a losing game. One player always gets left in the end. Where’s your brother, anyway?” asked Greg, and Mycroft lowered his book all the way, just as a small figure wrapped in a dark coat fell from a tree. John, from the nearby pond, gave a shout and ran over. 

“Don’t move!” he shouted jovially. “You’re dead!” 

“I am not!” howled Sherlock. 

“You’re _bleeding_.” 

“I am _not_.” 

“I can fix you!” John fell to his knees next to the boy on the ground, and started to cover him with the leaves that surrounded him. 

“He’s not bleeding,” said Greg. “I don’t _think_.” 

“Of course not, he didn’t fall that far,” said Mycroft, but it took everything he had not to run over and check. Greg didn’t seem all that worried, and Greg was clearly older, and wiser, and being more of an adult, would certainly have been the responsible party and gone to check over Sherlock if he was truly worried. 

Mycroft _thought_. 

In any case, Sherlock was yelling while John was covering him with leaves, and Mycroft could see Sherlock kick and flail his arms. It was a small hurricane of leaves, where the two boys were throwing them at each other, and Mycroft supposed that Sherlock wasn’t hurt too much, not considering the fury he had in their impromptu leaf-throwing fight. 

“You’re a government spy!” shouted John, and Mycroft thought the boy sounded entirely too delighted that Sherlock was finally fighting back. “That’s why you were up in the tree!” 

“I’m not a spy, I’m a _pirate_!” said Sherlock haughtily, and John tried to stuff leaves down his shirt. 

“That’s the _same thing_.” 

“It is _not_ , pirates fight for truth and justice and government spies lurk in dark corners.” 

“They do _not_ , pirates steal things. They’re _bad_.” 

Sherlock let out a howl. “ _That’s! Not! True!_ ” 

It was war. The two boys launched themselves at each other with all the furious force they could muster. John might have been stockier and a bit older, but Sherlock was a few centimeters taller and a good deal scrappy besides. Leaves flew as the boys wrestled, and Mycroft glanced at Greg, wondering when – or if – the older boy would interfere. 

“So, Schoolboy,” said Greg, making absolutely no move toward separating the boys at the bottom of the hill, “Anna’s your nanny?” 

“Not mine, Sherlock’s. I’m _thirteen_ , I don’t need a nanny.” 

“Suppose you’ve started at some fancy prep school, then?” 

Mycroft straightened. “Yes.” 

“What’s a head boy, if not a nanny?” 

“Head boys aren’t nannies!” 

“Keep you in line, give you demerits and all that, don’t they? I thought you looked like you ought to be wearing a tie.” 

Mycroft slammed his book shut and stood up. “You are very rude and I shan’t sit here and listen to you anymore.” 

“Oi,” said Greg, almost amused. “Keep your shirt on, I’m just taking the mickey. And anyway, your little brother is defending your honor by beating up my cousin.” 

Mycroft spun, disbelieving, but it was true. Sherlock had straddled John Watson, face-down in the middle of the leaves and was rubbing the leaves into the boy’s hair while he howled. 

“Geroff me geroff me geroff me!” 

“Say it’s not true! Say pirates are good!” wailed Sherlock. 

“I…oof…won’t!” 

“You have to! I made you up, you have to say it!” 

Mycroft groaned. 

“Sherlock!” he shouted. “Let him up, we have to go home!” 

“But, Mycroft!” 

“ _Now_ , Sherlock!” 

“Be that way,” said Greg, unconcerned. “Enjoy the rest of the book, Schoolboy.” 

“I will,” said Mycroft, back to being haughty. “And I would stay out of my park in the future. My parents would not be pleased to know that bad influences such as yourself hang about.” 

Greg stared at him. “Bad influences, eh?” he said, and his tone was much crisper than before. 

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “Your cousin has no right to attack my brother.” 

“Oh, and of course that’s how it happened,” said Greg, his voice going a bit tight. “And your parents will believe you because I don’t wear a tie to school?” 

“Do you even _attend_ school?” 

“Do I—?” Greg stared at him. “You pissant little wanker. _John_. We’re going home!” 

“But, Greg!” 

“ _Now_ , John!” 

Mycroft was halfway down the path when Greg spoke again. “You almost had me fooled there.” 

Mycroft couldn’t help it; he paused. 

“You were almost friendly, for a minute,” said Greg, scathingly. “Looks like you lot are all as stuck-up as everyone says, after all.” 

Mycroft straightened his shoulders, and kept walking. He ignored the little knot in his stomach, and didn’t dare look back, not even to check that Sherlock was following him home. 

* 

The incident might have been forgotten entirely, except for one thing. Anna returned the next day, perfectly pleased and flushing just a little when Mycroft’s parents asked after her sister. Mycroft cornered her in the hall. 

“You don’t have a sister,” he told her, and Anna went bright pink. “You met up with a boy from town while he was meant to be looking after his little cousin, didn’t you? The cousin had leaves in his hair.” 

Anna’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and then she shut it with a snap. “Are you going to tell on me?” she demanded. 

“Depends. He’s far too young for you.” 

“Yes, _thank_ you.” Anna didn’t look the least bit annoyed or surprised. Mycroft wondered what she was about, going out with a boy who was six years younger, and _knowing_ it. 

“Are you going to see him again and stick me with Sherlock for the day?” 

Anna wasn’t half as intelligent as Mycroft – or Sherlock, for all his six years and destructive habits – but she was far from stupid. “No,” she said, and Mycroft would have been happy enough to end it there, but apparently all Anna needed for confidentiality was a little foreknowledge of her actual transgressions. “He kisses like he’s distracted, anyway.” 

Mycroft had no idea what that meant, and read his book to shreds trying to find a clue.  
  
  
  


_Two_

It was two years before Mycroft Holmes saw Greg Lestrade again. By that time, of course, he’d learned that Head Boys could be a whole lot nastier than nannies (though he privately thought that in many ways, they were a lot alike). 

He’d also figured out what Anna had meant about kissing while distracted. Not because the girl he’d kissed under the weeping willow had been distracted, but because he’d been distracted himself. It wasn’t a pleasant revelation, exactly, and Mycroft decided to leave off kissing anyone for a little while, because the humiliation was a bit much to bear. 

(It was a toss-up which was worse: the humiliation of being laughed at, or the frustration of knowing it was deserved and there was nothing to be done about it.) 

The town was draped in spring-like colors. The trees along the lanes were groaning with the new-found weight of leaves and bird’s nests, and the ground was a bright muddy brown mixed with the yellow splash of daffodils emerging from winter slumbers. Every person Mycroft passed wore the pinks and yellows of spring-time jackets, bright eyes and hair that had been hastily combed in a rush to get outside to enjoy the sunshine. 

Everyone was moving quickly, overly buoyant and joyous. Mycroft thought the whole town had gone a bit addled during the long winter, which had been unusually cold and snowy. 

The boy sitting on the stone wall surrounding the churchyard was the only person in the town who wasn’t moving with any sense of purpose; he wasn’t moving at all, really, which was what made him stand out. Mycroft couldn’t help giving him a second glance; not only was he the only person not moving, but he wore a black leather jacket covered in pointless zips, and his hair was stuck up as if he hadn’t combed it in the two years since they’d met. He stood out in the brightly colored springtime sunshine like a dark reminder of almost-forgotten nightmares. 

The oddest part of the picture, however, was the paper cup of coffee he held in his hand, still slightly steaming. It was too domestic for such a creature, and Mycroft was filled with a sense of foreboding, that somehow the boy and that coffee were a very ominous combination. 

Mycroft crossed the street and stopped just out of arm’s length. 

“Make sure you throw that in a rubbish bin,” he said, and was pleased that he managed to sound quite authoritative. 

Greg Lestrade gave him a slow look. “Hullo to you too. Kissed a girl yet?” 

Mycroft’s back stiffened. “That’s none of your business.” 

“Clearly not,” said Greg Lestrade, and Mycroft wondered if he meant kissing the girl, or whether the knowledge was his business. In any case, he was more amused than anything else, and he took another sip of his coffee. Not tea; Mycroft could smell the dark roast, and it both insulted his British sensibilities as well as made him somewhat hungry. 

“There are benches nearby if you want to sit,” continued Mycroft. 

“That an invitation?” 

Mycroft glared. 

“Free country, mate,” said Greg. “How’s your little brother?” 

“Sherlock is well, thank you,” said Mycroft. “How is your cousin?” 

“John? No idea, haven’t seen him in years. His da kicked it and they moved up north somewhere.” 

And that ought to have been the end of the conversation; it wasn’t as though Mycroft had anything in common with the boy sitting on the wall, drinking coffee and wearing a rather ridiculous leather jacket. Mycroft had no doubt that should the boy walk down the street, half the shopkeepers would be watching him with a close eye, waiting for Greg to pop in and demand protection money or something ridiculous like that. 

If Mycroft wanted to be sensible, he would say good day and go straight down the road and back home. There could be no good coming out of a conversation with Greg Lestrade, Public Menace in Training. 

“Want a fag?” asked Greg, holding out the pack of cigarettes. He already had one between his lips, and spoke in such an easy and comprehensible manner that Mycroft at once felt envious. 

“Thank you,” said Mycroft. The carton was half empty and somewhat crushed; one of the cigarettes had been placed upside down, and Mycroft could see the dark tobacco easily against the filmy white of the filters. He carefully pulled a cigarette out of the carton with two fingers. He held it between his forefinger and his thumb, wondering exactly how one was meant to hold it and not look ridiculous, before Greg sighed with impatience and snatched the cigarette out of his hands. He held the end to his own, cupping his hand around the lit ends to block it from the wind, and gently sucking until the ash glowed orange and lit the second cigarette. 

Watching him, Mycroft almost grasped why he’d stopped to talk to the other boy at all, but the revelation, barely even formed in his own mind, was gone the moment Greg looked up and handed him the lit cigarette. 

Mycroft tried not to look as though he didn’t know what he was doing. Greg’s eyes were squarely focused on him, though, and Mycroft could see the amusement in them. As if he half expected that Mycroft would somehow smoke the fag wrong, and burst out coughing there on the pavement. 

Which, as it happened, was exactly what Mycroft did. 

“And here I thought all the posh toffs like you smoked from the cradle,” said Greg, and hopped off the wall to pound Mycroft on the back. 

“Smoking will kill you,” Mycroft managed to say. He was still standing, but doubled over, and all he could see were Greg’s metal-toed black boots standing near to his own feet. His eyes were burning up with tears and he half expected to see his lungs on the pavement. 

“So will a lot of things,” said Greg, and gave Mycroft’s back another pounding. “What’d you take it for if you can’t smoke, you great berk?” 

“Don’t know,” said Mycroft, and tried to straighten up. His eyes were still watering. 

“Arsehole,” said Greg, but it was said admiringly. 

Mycroft blinked rapidly. He refused to wipe the tears away and risk looking like a child. “Teach me.” 

“ _Teach_ you?” 

Mycroft nodded, and without quite knowing why, added, “Please.” 

It was a long minute while Greg assessed him. Mycroft didn’t move except to straighten his back and blink his still watering eyes. 

“Come on, then,” said Greg. “Follow me.” 

Greg took him behind the church, where the walls were bare of foliage and blocked from the wind. Greg settled on the dirt, back against the stones, knees in the air and Mycroft tried not to think about the stains his trousers would surely have as he settled next to the older boy. 

“The trick is to only take in the smoke you can handle. You’re just learning, so you can’t take so much. You will after a while. And hold it in your mouth before you inhale it, you can’t just suck it down or you’ll cough your lungs out.” 

“Did you learn this in school?” asked Mycroft. 

Greg snorted. “I’ll pretend you didn’t ask that, Schoolboy. Try it.” 

Mycroft held the fag to his lips again, and after a quick glance at Greg (who looked both bored and highly amused), sucked the cigarette cautiously. 

It was _terrible_. It was warm, and sharp, and tasted like a combination of ash and dirt and dust. Mycroft couldn’t think of any reason why anyone would actually _want_ to do this on a regular basis, let alone become _addicted_ to it. 

He held the smoke in his mouth, grimacing, and suddenly realized he had no idea what to do next. 

Greg said something – it sounded strangely like, “Don’t swallow.” 

Which unfortunately corresponded with Mycroft swallowing. 

“You _idiot_ ,” groaned Greg as he thumped Mycroft’s back for a second time. 

“Why would _anyone_ do this to themselves?” groaned Mycroft into the dirt between his knees. His chest _hurt_ , his throat _hurt_ , everything was burning, and he couldn’t stop coughing, not even to speak. He was fairly certain that Greg had no idea what he was saying, mostly because it didn’t sound like English even to Mycroft. 

“You absolute Class A pillock,” said Greg, but kept on thumping at his back as if Mycroft’s ability to breathe actually mattered to him. 

The coughing subsided. Almost. Mycroft sat up. “I want to try again.” 

Greg snorted and handed him the cigarette. He looked extremely doubtful. “Right, so, this time, let’s pretend you can actually follow directions and _don’t swallow_. Hold it in your mouth, then inhale, then exhale. Got it?” 

It still tasted terrible, but Mycroft thought he might be able to overcome that, if he didn’t asphyxiate first. He held the smoke in his mouth and tried to suppress the rolling protest in his stomach. Then he opened his mouth and inhaled. 

_Blimey_. 

The smoke sat high in his lungs, sharp and heavy. Mycroft thought he could feel every tiny balloon fill and expand, stretch itself out past the borders of his skin. His lungs almost hurt, but not with the smoke itself – with the feeling of _fullness_. Every blood vessel, every vein and artery straight down to the capillaries was singing and dancing and sparking within him. 

_Bloody hell_! Mycroft looked at Greg with wide eyes, and saw that Greg was grinning back at him. The entire world was awash in color and light and everything was just bloody _brilliant_ and Mycroft thought he could see everything, all at once, and understand it intimately. 

Mycroft didn’t want to exhale. He wanted to hold onto that feeling as long as he could. 

For a moment, Mycroft wanted to _kiss_ Greg for being so patient and giving him another chance. 

The suddenness of that thought was like a punch in the gut; the air leaked out of Mycroft, a slow smoky trail, and with it, Mycroft felt deflated. There was a rush of blood to his head, and for a moment, he thought he’d fall over onto the dirt, and held himself up by sheer will. 

“Not bad,” said Greg, and took the cigarette from him. It had mostly burnt away now, what with Mycroft’s stalling and trying to swallow half of it. Greg stubbed it out on the wall behind them until the flame was gone, then buried it in the dirt at the base of the church. “You’ll get the hang of it.” 

“How long did it take you?” asked Mycroft, still winded. 

“I dunno, a day. Don’t reckon I looked like I knew what I was doing until I was at it for a while, though. You exhaled like a pro.” 

Mycroft watched Greg pinch the cigarette, drawing it to his lips and sucking in the smoke. He could see the pattern now, holding the smoke in his mouth, drawing it into his lungs while he drew the fag away, relishing that moment where the smoke filled his lungs and made him larger than life, then slowly blowing it out as if it didn’t matter. Seamless, flawless, and Mycroft counted the beats, almost mesmerized. 

“Who taught you?” 

“Dunno, some bloke at school,” said Greg, and handed him the fag again. “Want another go?” 

Mycroft took the fag cautiously. It wasn’t that he didn’t want the feeling of power and omnipotence; it was more that he had the sudden realization that the fag had only recently been sitting on Greg’s lips, and now it was about to sit on his own. 

“It’s easier on the second go,” said Greg. 

“That’s not the same as better.” 

Greg shrugged. “It’s never better than the first time.” 

“Like kissing,” said Mycroft before he could think, and Greg gave him an odd look. 

“What’s kissing got to do with it?” asked Greg, guarded in an odd way that Mycroft almost recognized. 

“That’s what you said, by the pond. Kissing’s only good on the first go.” 

Mycroft put the fag to his lips, anxious to stop the conversation. Greg was right, it was easier – and nowhere near as good. The movements were more natural, though still somewhat stilted, and the smoke wasn’t as sharp, but his lungs didn’t expand quite in the same outward-reaching way. 

“You have to take in more every time,” said Greg, watching him with an even expression. “In order to make it as good as the first try.” 

Mycroft had no idea if he was talking about kisses or smoking. It might have applied to both. 

“So, Schoolboy,” said Greg, watching him, “why are you slumming it here with me anyway?” 

“Told you,” said Mycroft as he handed back the fag. “I wanted to learn to smoke.” 

“So I’m just a convenient yob, is that it?” 

But Greg didn’t sound disappointed or insulted – just matter of fact, and Mycroft waited until the fag was returned to him. He wondered if one could be addicted this quickly. He wasn’t sure, and while he took his third successful drag, he tried to formulate how one would go about the research. He doubted his masters would approve of any case studies involving other students. And besides, half the school smoked already. 

Perhaps, mused Mycroft, it would only take a few interviews, and not actual labwork. Much more to his liking. 

Mycroft handed the fag back to Greg, who took another drag without saying a word. Mycroft wasn’t sure if he was meant to say something, and only belatedly remembered that Greg had asked a question. 

“You’re not the least bit convenient,” he said finally, and Greg coughed up his laughter, and handed the fag back to Mycroft. 

They continued to smoke in silence until the cigarette was gone. Greg rubbed it out on the stone and then buried it in the dirt. 

“We could smoke another?” said Mycroft, hesitant, but Greg shook his head without saying why, and Mycroft pressed his back to the stone. It was comfortable, sitting at the base of the church; the stones at his back were no longer cold, but the heat radiating from the boy sitting next to him was hotter and more comforting, and Mycroft felt himself leaning into him. 

It was just a moment; it couldn’t have been longer. Mycroft’s arm touched Greg’s, pressed up against it, and then Mycroft’s head was on his shoulder, fitting into that small nook at his neck. That would have been enough, really – but Greg’s head tipped onto his, comfortable and safe, and it was just a moment where the two of them were pressed together, breathing in the smoke they’d shared. 

Just a moment, and then the older boy jumped to his feet, and Mycroft nearly fell over in the dirt. 

“Oi,” said Greg quickly. “I have to go.” 

“Where?” 

“Don’t smoke too much at once, you’ll get a headache,” said Greg quickly fumbling with the zip on his coat – the only zip that worked, anyway, and Mycroft pushed himself up, wondering what broke their camaraderie. 

“You don’t have to go.” 

“Yeah, I do.” 

“No, it’s fine, I won’t tell anyone—” 

“Tell them what? Tell them _what_?” demanded Greg, breathing hard and growing red in the face, and Mycroft got to his feet, keeping one hand on the church wall. 

“That you’re a—” 

“ _I’m not_!” shouted Greg, and gave Mycroft a shove. “So you won’t tell nobody _nothing_ , got it? There’s nothing to tell. You keep your mouth shut.” 

“I…Greg!” 

But Greg was already walking away, his feet crunching on the ground and his hands shoved hard in his pockets, hunched over. Mycroft felt the church wall crumble a little under his fingers, and didn’t move until Greg had disappeared from sight. 

* 

Mummy smelled it the moment he walked in the door, of course, and sighed and said nothing, just as he knew she would. Father flicked his newspaper and said in his gruff tone, “They’ll come out of your own pocket money, I shan’t increase your allowance to compensate.” 

And Sherlock looked at him with wide, curious, adoring eyes, and puffed out his chest. Mycroft knew he was filing the information away for future reference. _Mycroft, 15 years old, grown-up enough to smoke!_

It was on a trip to London the following week when Mycroft saw the two men in the dark alleyway, curled around each other, foreheads pressed together, eyes closed, private and chaste. 

“Sodding poofters,” said his father, and kept walking. Mycroft followed dutifully, but kept looking back. 

 

 

_Three_

The pub was raucous and belligerent and full of dark panels and odd photographs on the walls. Mycroft wouldn’t have thought to describe a pub as _belligerent_ , but somehow the combination of noisy tables and dark corners and the imposing glares from the regulars at the bar was defiant in a way that struck him exactly so. The air was filled with a mix of cigar and cigarette smoke, so thick it burned at the back of Mycroft’s throat, which was already well-accustomed to cigarette smoke and shouldn’t have been so irritated. 

“Oi, we’d like another _round_ , now!” shouted Marcus at the barman, and the rest of the fellows at the table let out hoots of laughter and banged their open palms against the table. The barman sensibly ignored them, but half a dozen men at the bar turned and focused their gazes on the boys. None of them looked pleased. 

“Christ, this place is a dump,” said Percy, and kicked his feet under the table. “I’ve had piss that tastes better than this.” 

“Buy me another and I should be able to oblige,” said Charles, and they howled again. 

“Barmaid!” shouted Marcus, knowing it was futile, and not caring. 

“You have to go to the bar,” said Mycroft patiently, and Marcus scowled, and went. 

“So this is what ordinary people do,” said Percy thoughtfully. “How dull.” 

“Is it?” asked Charles, eyes on the bar. Probably looking for the pretty girls, Mycroft supposed. “I think it’s the very opposite, they’re all certainly very pleased to be here.” 

“I can’t imagine _why_. Going out, getting pissed, rolling yourself back home again. It’s all so tedious. They could spend their time bettering themselves and their lots in life if they only applied themselves to more worthwhile pursuits.” 

“Oh, here it comes now,” groaned Charles. “Mycroft, are you listening to this prattle?” 

“Reading chemistry or attempting to solve a mathematical equation. Volunteering at a local charity, aren’t ordinary people always doing something like that?” 

“And you spend so much time with ordinary people?” countered Charles. 

“Instead they’re drinking themselves into stupors night after night in a futile effort to forget that their lives are, essentially, pointless.” 

“Percy,” said Mycroft, a bit wearily. “Do shut up.” 

Percy pressed his lips together, and shut up. Marcus returned, carrying two glasses filled to the brim with dark brew. A barmaid was directly behind him, carrying two more. 

“Speaking of ordinary. Hello, lovey,” said Charles with a lazy grin. “Care to sit for a while and have a drink with us?” 

“Oh, sure, I’ll be right back,” said the barmaid dryly, and Mycroft could tell she didn’t mean it at all. But Charles watched her with hungry eyes. 

“Marcus, you agree, don’t you, old chap?” Percy demanded. The bitter sat in front of him, but he hadn’t touched it. “This is all so much poppycock. A waste of human resources and ingenuity.” 

“I hardly think alcohol is a waste of ingenuity,” said Marcus, when he finally came up for air. “Though it would have been nice to have someone bring it to one, rather than having to fetch it for oneself.” 

“Not the _alcohol_ , the whole—” Percy waved his hand to indicate the rest of the pub, though how an establishment devoted to the sale and consumption of alcohol was meant to symbolize anything but, Mycroft did not quite understand. He wasn’t sure Percy did, either. “I mean _people_. Ten thousand years of civilization, of rising up out of the muck and casting away the yoke of serfdom, and these _people_ still tie themselves as slaves to the almighty brew that turns them into the imbeciles their ancestors tried not to be.” 

“That’s placing quite a lot of confidence in their ancestors,” said Charles. Marcus was already half through his fourth pint. 

“It’s pointless,” insisted Percy. “ _Pointless_.” He stood up and gesticulated widely to the rest of the pub. “You are all _pointless_. Your relentless pursuit toward mediocrity is an affront to more intelligent people.” 

Mycroft reached over and tugged on Percy’s coat sleeve. “I shall invent a time machine and drown you at _birth_. Please do sit down, drink the destruction of civilization that Marcus brought you, and _shut up_.” 

Percy sat down and drained his glass. 

“She’s not coming back,” said Charles mournfully, watching the barmaid behind the bar. 

“You’re a boor, of course not,” said Marcus. 

“But I have a country house in Kent.” 

“Tell her, then.” 

“Lovey. _Lovey_!” called Charles, trying to catch her attention. “I’ve a house in Kent, do you want to have a look at it? It has five bedrooms!” 

The barmaid ignored him, which Mycroft thought was very wise of her. 

“She’s not listening,” complained Charles. 

“She’s one of the unwashed masses, you don’t want her,” said Percy. 

“But I do.” 

“That’s your baser instincts, Charles. You’re an idiot,” said Percy. 

“Oi,” said the young man standing next to the table. “D’you lot mind keeping it down a bit?” 

Mycroft hadn’t seen him approaching, but he recognized the voice anyway. It wasn’t until he looked up to see the young man’s face that he remembered who Greg Lestrade was. 

Greg continued talking. “Only insulting the rest of the pub isn’t gaining you any friends, and I have the idea that there’s a much rougher crowd here than you might be used to.” 

Mycroft tapped his hand once against the table, and Marcus immediately began to nod enthusiastically. 

“Right, of course. Thank you very much, old chap, for pointing that out to us. We’ll try to tone it down a bit, don’t want to cause bruised feelings or any of that rot.” 

“Right,” said Greg warily, with another warning glance at Charles. “Ta.” 

Mycroft watched Greg cross the pub again, back to a table on the far side where there were several other young men gathered, all wearing jeans and work shirts, with sharply cut hair and muscled arms. Mycroft narrowed his eyes and watched them, picking up on the various clues. 

“Christ,” said Marcus. “As if we’re such a bother. They’re lucky we came in at all, the place down the road’s got better whiskey.” 

“Go there, then,” said Mycroft absently. Not military, the hair was too long, but all cut short – police, perhaps. That would explain the authoritative airs as well. All of the men with Greg looked as though they could jump to in an instant; they scanned the pub not as if they owned it, but merely as though it were under their guardianship. 

Mycroft supposed, in a way, it was, and wondered how _Greg Lestrade_ , who smoked behind the church and wore leather jackets covered in zips, had fallen in with _that_ crowd. 

“I might, I might,” said Marcus, but went over to the bar anyway and ordered additional beers. Mycroft half thought the man had drunk enough already, considering the careful attention he’d paid to his steps, but said nothing. 

“I think it was the bedrooms,” said Charles. “She’s intimidated.” 

“That’s another word for it,” said Mycroft. 

“I should mention the gardener’s cottage. It’s smaller, only a bedroom and half a lav, she’d probably feel more at home.” 

“ _Half_ a lav,” muttered Percy. “Look at them, sitting there as if they own the place.” 

Mycroft followed Percy’s gaze, before realizing that Percy was actually following his own – and as usual, misinterpreting. 

“I’ve got a right to be here,” continued Percy. “You’ve got the right. We could _own_ this town. We probably did, a few hundred years ago.” 

“Sadly, time marches on,” said Mycroft, and tried to put the hint in his tone. Either Percy was too pissed to notice, or Mycroft hadn’t done quite as well as he’d hoped. 

“Telling us to bugger off like we’re the rabble.” 

“Hardly, they merely wanted us to quiet down a bit.” 

Percy stood, wavering a little on his feet. “I need a piss.” 

Percy stumbled his way to the lavatories in the back of the pub. Mycroft watched his trek, dangerously close to the table where the police recruits were still sitting, muttering amongst themselves, and casting wary, assessing eyes toward them. 

Luckily, Percy passed right by, and Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief. 

Marcus returned with the beer, and the barmaid in tow again. 

“Come on, duck,” said Charles beseechingly. “You’re such a pretty thing, surely you’d like a bit of a fondle with someone who knows what they’re doing?” 

The girl paused for a moment, and Mycroft half wondered if she was actually going to fall for Charles’s charms. 

“Is that right?” she asked sweetly. 

Somewhere, across the bar, a door slammed. Mycroft’s eyes darted over; he saw Percy come out from the lav, no less pissed, but somehow a bit more determined and focused. 

“None of the blokes here know what you’re capable of,” continued Charles. “You need someone better than yourself to really show you a good time.” 

The girl’s eyes were flashing now. Mycroft wondered if he should rescue Charles, or let him continue to sink. “And you’re that bloke, I take it.” 

Mycroft would have said something – anything, really – to circumvent what he already knew was coming, except that out of the corner of his eye, he saw Percy walk straight to the table with Greg Lestrade and the police recruits. 

Charles grinned and threw his arms wide. “Come on, then, love, give us a kiss and let’s see what you’ve learned from the rabble so far.” 

“Happily,” said the girl, and punched him. 

Which would have had the expected reaction from the rest of the pub, had Percy not, at the same time, decided to throw a much less coordinated punch at one of the police recruits. However, Percy didn’t even land his shot, and instead spun from the force of his own blow, and landed straight on the table, breaking it in two, and sending the recruits’ drinks flying into their laps and across the room. 

The pub broke into chaos. 

Marcus leaned into Mycroft. “The whiskey might be rubbish,” said Marcus thoughtfully. “But I must say, the entertainment is far better here.” 

* 

“I say,” began Mycroft. “I don’t suppose there is anything I can do to keep the entire thing…quiet?” 

Greg Lestrade glanced over at Mycroft. They were leaning against the bar, watching as the other police recruits handled the cleanup. Mostly this involved actual cleanup, though the ones who were doing the physical cleaning were Marcus and Charles, who were wielding a broom, dustpan, and mop as though the items in question were electric eels. Percy had been knocked unconscious by his fall, and was sleeping the sleep of the innocent and just, which he most certainly was not. He had been shoved into a corner booth and was snoring away, only his feet visible from the bar. 

The barmaid had stopped serving, and was on the far side of the pub, surrounded by her friends, giving a hysterical account of the evening’s activities. Hysterical in the amusing sense; her companions kept letting out hoots of laughter at various intervals, and the girl herself didn’t look the least bit distressed. 

“Define _quiet_ ,” said Greg. “I’m curious if you know the meaning of the word.” 

“The opposite of my companions this evening, of course.” 

“Might do,” said Greg thoughtfully. “Now define ‘anything I can do’.” 

“Now, Officer,” said Mycroft congenially. “I wouldn’t think I’d need to define _that_ for you.” And from his pocket, he produced a twenty-pound note. 

Greg glanced at the note and rolled his eyes. “Bribing an officer with a twenty-pound note? Christ, you’ve got balls on you. I’ve half a mind to call in your mates just for your own sheer stupidity.” 

Mycroft shoved the note back in his pocket. 

“Specifically, you’d rather the events of the evening not make it back to your parents,” continued Greg. “Reckon they’d curb your allowance, do you? Pity, having to scrape by on, what, hundred quid a week?” 

Mycroft glared at him. “I don’t have an _allowance_.” 

“No, you’ve got a trust fund,” said Greg. 

Mycroft pushed away from the bar. “Clearly, you are a man of principles, though you have a rude way of showing them. I am sorry to have taken up your time and ruined your evening, and I’ll go and sit with Percy now and kick him until he wakes and can assist with the cleanup.” 

“Oi,” said Greg suddenly. “Sit back down. Here…” He fumbled in his coat pocket for a moment, and then pulled out a half-crushed packet. “Have a fag?” 

Mycroft paused, and chanced a look into Greg’s eyes. 

“Ah,” he said finally. “You do remember me.” 

“Hard to forget, teaching a posh kid to smoke,” said Greg dryly. “Go on, then.” 

Mycroft took one of the cigarettes and put it in between his lips. By the time he’d pulled out his lighter, Greg had copied him, and Mycroft lit his cigarette, and then offered to do the same to Greg, who allowed it. 

“You’ve got better,” said Greg. 

“Five years practice.” 

“Can’t call you Schoolboy anymore.” 

“Holmes,” said Mycroft, and Greg snorted. 

“Well, then, _Mr_ Holmes, I’m not going to call in your mates. For one thing, Sleeping Beauty didn’t actually break any laws, unless your lot created a new one about being an idiot. Might get him on attempted assault, but it’s not worth the bother. As for the rest, I’d be more concerned that your friend will press charges against Harry, rather than the other way around.” 

“Harry?” 

“She throws quite the punch. He’s going to sport a whopper of a black eye in the morning,” said Greg, motioning to Charles, who was already looked somewhat battered. 

“I dare say Charles deserved it,” said Mycroft, “though I doubt he will ever understand why.” 

“You seem too intelligent for this lot,” said Greg. 

“My options for companionship are somewhat limited in scope,” said Mycroft dryly. “One thinks of university as being an opening to the world. Really, it’s more of a bottleneck.” 

Greg chuckled. “Yeah, that’s about right.” 

Mycroft glanced at him. “You attended uni?” 

“There’s the posh preconceptions again. Not all of us rise out of the muck and drink beer all day, you know.” 

Mycroft winced. 

“I don’t agree with Percy.” 

“No, but plenty do,” said Greg. “Pigs, fuzz, whatever. I’m not going to be in uniform forever, I’ve got my eye on CID.” 

Greg blew a ring of smoke out; Mycroft watched him thoughtfully. “I didn’t realize there was a detective unit here.” 

“Small one,” admitted Greg. 

“Playing detective, solving mysteries?” 

“Go on, make fun. Sight more interesting than banking or investments or whatever your parents want you to waste your life doing.” 

“Now who is falling in with preconceived notions of class? I’m for government work, actually,” said Mycroft, and blew a smoke ring of his own. 

“In London? Yeah. I can see you there, living in some posh town house, hobnobbing with foreign dignitaries and going to fancy dinners.” 

“Rather more like sitting at a desk in a windowless basement, serving the public welfare for the greater good at a reasonably unrespectable salary.” 

Greg huffed. “Well, then, that’s us told. You’ll end up running the government, no doubt.” 

“As you’ll be Detective Inspector, solving high profile cases within ten years, I’m sure.” 

Mycroft caught Greg’s grin, and looked away quickly, as he felt his lips start to reciprocate. 

“Oi!” Greg called out to his mates. “They’ve done a right nice job with that broom, don’t you think?” 

Marcus and Charles had nearly finished cleaning up the broken shards of table, the tiny pieces of glass, the spilled beer and the peanuts which had flown in every direction. They glanced at each other, and then at Mycroft, half pleading, half exasperated. 

“I say,” said Marcus, but no one paid attention to him. 

“D’you know,” said Greg thoughtfully, “your friend seemed to indicate that there was a problem with the cleanliness of the toilets, before he did his pirouette and passed out on our table.” 

There was a look of absolute horror on Marcus and Charles’s faces, just before the police recruits swept them up and pushed them, shouting with glee, to the lavatories in the back. 

“Make sure you get the crud around the tap, that’s the worst part!” shouted Greg, and settled back down on his seat. “I thought we might leave that for Sleeping Beauty, but I don’t think he’ll wake any time soon, do you?” 

“You’re enjoying their punishment, aren’t you?” 

“A bit,” admitted Greg. “But if any of you really thought it was undeserved, you could walk your way out and we wouldn’t stop you.” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Is that right?” 

“It is,” said Greg, and stretched out his legs. “So. Are you going to rescue them?” 

Mycroft considered. “No.” 

To his credit, Greg didn’t laugh. Instead he waved down the barman and ordered another beer. Mycroft watched them chat; he could tell they weren’t terribly well acquainted, but Greg had an easy air about him, and didn’t seem to have any trouble with small talk. Odd; he found he couldn’t really take his eyes from Greg at all. His jacket stretched across his back as the older man leaned across the counter. There were two small wrinkles that formed at the edge of his eyes when he smiled, and his brown hair was lighter at the tips, as if he’d had it lightened, or perhaps was showing signs of premature grey. 

Greg would look rather dashing, gone grey. Mycroft knew his own hair would go thinner and thinner until it was nonexistent. 

“Scotland Yard has a large CID; surely you could find a place there easier than one here,” said Mycroft without thinking. Greg sat back, his conversation with the barman abandoned, and appeared to actually consider Mycroft’s question. 

“Bit far,” he said finally. “My whole life is here.” 

“I’m leaving,” said Mycroft. “That is, I already left for uni. I’m not coming back, either.” 

“Not even for your brother?” asked Greg, and that Greg even remembered Sherlock existed caught Mycroft by surprise. 

“He’s at school himself now,” said Mycroft. “And he already hates me.” 

Greg shrugged. “Well, that’s you, mate.” 

“Pity,” said Mycroft. “I would rather have thought…” 

The beers appeared in front of them, and Mycroft quickly picked his up so he wouldn’t have to finish the thought. Greg, on the other hand, didn’t seem to need it said. 

“Wouldn’t have worked. Different worlds, you ‘n me.” 

“Of course,” said Mycroft into the beer. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.” 

“You probably don’t even drink beer,” continued Greg. 

“Not very often, no.” 

“See,” said Greg, as if this was the only possible basis for friendship, and Mycroft thought of Percy’s ranting about the proletariat, and its alarming addiction to the lower forms of entertainment. “Anyway, we’ll always have the back of the church.” 

Mycroft chuckled, and remembered the cigarette he was holding. He drew it to his lips, and caught Greg watching him. 

Mycroft hadn’t smoked a cigarette with an audience since the first one; suddenly he became conscious of every move his fingers made, the slim and fragile stick of tobacco between his lips. He inhaled the smoke into his mouth, and then drew it into his lungs. He expected a sharp bite of nicotine, but it’d been too long since he’d taken up smoking; all he felt was the comfortable fullness inside his chest, the peculiar warmth and a near feeling of completeness. 

When he exhaled the smoke in a long, thin stream, the completeness didn’t quite fade the way it normally did. Greg’s eyes never left his. 

“I need some air,” said Greg suddenly, and he took his glass of beer and pushed away from the counter so suddenly that Mycroft nearly toppled over, though Greg hadn’t laid a hand on him. Greg strode through the pub, weaving his way through the thickening crowd, and Mycroft struggled to keep up. They exploded onto the street, and the door to the pub slammed behind them. 

There was a porch, but it was empty; any other person with an ounce of sense was clearly inside where it was warm. The cold, damp night air was a shock to Mycroft’s lungs, so recently warmed by the cigarette, and he coughed for a moment. 

“Ought to give ‘em up, they’ll kill you in the end,” said Greg, a bit flippant, and Mycroft defiantly lifted the cigarette to his lips again. Greg grinned, and leaned against the wall. “Christ, you’re annoying.” 

“Am I?” 

“Pop up like a bad penny, you do.” 

“You must not see many pennies, then.” 

Greg snorted and took a drink. “How old are you?” 

Mycroft bristled. “Old enough.” 

“Kissed a girl yet?” 

“Dozens,” said Mycroft. 

Greg shook his beer at him. “Lying.” 

The cold was creeping into Mycroft’s bones and his cigarette had burned to ash. “Sorry, most of my experience is on the other side of the fence. What with attending my poncy boarding school, you understand.” 

Mycroft turned his back on Greg and shoved the cigarette butt deep into the flower pots hanging on the fence along the porch. He half expected Greg to pull away again – call him a faggot, go back inside, bury himself in a dark corner or the like. 

He didn’t expect Greg to cross the porch and stand next to him. 

“You’re burying it,” he said, half surprised. 

“You taught me,” replied Mycroft, and when he looked up at Greg, he was caught by how close the other man stood to him. The only things in proper focus were Greg’s eyes, and it was too dark to see them properly, not by the light spilling from the shaded windows of the pub, or the yellow streetlamps halfway down the road. 

Greg didn’t pull or look away, and Mycroft held his breath, waiting for one of them to make a move. There were shouts from inside the pub, but it was quiet on the porch, just the sound of their breathing in the cold night air, traffic from a distance, laughter from a nearby flat. In the bubble created by the two of them, Mycroft waited for whatever was going to happen next. 

“Christ,” said Greg finally, and he stepped back. Mycroft didn’t move, just watched as Greg ran a shaking hand through his hair. Greg exhaled, slowly, and then drained the rest of the beer before dropping the glass on the nearest table. “Bloody berk. I didn’t ask you to follow me.” 

Laughter again, floating down from above. Mycroft set his own glass down on the table. He wasn’t thirsty any more. “I thought – apparently I was wrong.” 

He turned to go back inside; a hand on his arm stopped him. “It’s all right. Stay.” 

“If I’m not wanted—” 

“Shut up,” said Greg, and pulled him, hard, and Mycroft lost his balance and fell against Greg. Greg held his arm tightly in his hand, and it was too dark to read the expression on Greg’s face, but somehow Mycroft knew what was coming. It might have been the way that Greg was holding him fast, just above the elbow, where he had the greatest control over where Mycroft might have gone. Or maybe it was the sound of Greg’s breathing, open-mouthed, quick and shallow, as if his heart was beating out of his chest. 

Mycroft wasn’t sure it was any of those things, but when Greg’s lips landed on his, Mycroft wasn’t surprised. Not very, anyway. He closed his eyes and held his breath, listened to the pounding of his heart in his ears. 

(Not his heart, of course not; just the blood rushing through his veins.) 

Greg’s mouth was open, his tongue already pressing against Mycroft’s. Bitter beer and salt, the hazy smoke of the cigarette. Mycroft wasn’t sure how to respond, not at first, because he could feel Greg’s agitation in his fingers, the way Greg alternately pressed the digits into Mycroft’s arm, and released him again. Mycroft was sure he would have bruises by morning, and the sharp stabs of pain were enough to keep him from really relaxing into the kiss – not that he thought he could. 

And then there was a flutter at Mycroft’s opposite cheek. Greg’s other hand, coming up to rest against the skin, gentle. Mycroft sighed, brokenly, into it, pressed his head to Greg’s fingers, and somehow, this seemed to reset them, because Greg’s hand stopped pulsing on Mycroft’s arm, and became steady. And Greg’s tongue stopped forcing entry, and instead he began to lap at Mycroft’s lips. 

Mycroft gave in, and the moment he did, the kiss changed from forceful and pointed to something gentler. Greg’s grip on Mycroft softened, though he didn’t let go. Mycroft couldn’t categorize the kiss; it was as if Greg, despite his experience, didn’t quite know what to make of it either. He kept changing his pace, trying to find a rhythm of sorts in the way their mouths moved together. 

When Greg finally pulled away, Mycroft’s mouth tingled. Greg’s brows were creased in confusion and a bit of surprise, and his lips were a bit swollen. 

“I—“ Greg started to say, and Mycroft didn’t want to hear it. 

A creak and a shuffle from the door behind them; Greg stepped back and the rush of cold air to Mycroft’s chest and groin were an unpleasant reminder of the cold night. 

“I say,” said Percy, a bit groggily. “I thought you’d up and left me, mate. Not sporting at all.” 

“Percy,” said Mycroft, and he turned to look at his friend. “I’m surprised you’re awake, you drank enough to fell a horse.” 

Percy didn’t answer; he leaned against the doorjamb, and his eyes stared just over Mycroft’s shoulder. “I drank enough to know I can’t drive, and not enough to think I can.” 

“Well, that’s something,” acknowledged Mycroft. “Is that your way of telling me you’d like to go home now?” 

“If the good officer will let me,” said Percy, and Mycroft realized, with a sinking stomach, where Percy was looking. 

“I’ve no trouble with you, mate,” said Greg, and Percy shrugged. “Suspect your friends are about done with the loo, might take them home as well.” 

Percy nodded; his hair rubbed against the wooden door frame, and after another glance at Mycroft, he disappeared back into the pub. 

Mycroft didn’t turn around. He heard Greg shuffle behind him, pick up the empty beer glass on the table. 

“Christ,” Greg muttered. “I should— I’m not—” 

“Three,” said Mycroft, still staring at the door where Percy had stood. 

“What?” 

“Three girls, if you must know.” 

“There’s no need to share our particular histories,” said Greg shortly. “I’m not—” 

“Of course not. I never meant to infer that you were, either now or in the churchyard.” 

“What?” 

Mycroft turned, pleased that he managed to do it so smoothly. Greg hadn’t moved far, and he held the empty beer glass as if he dearly wished it were full. “You don’t remember? Of course not. Why should you? I was just a posh kid doing a little bit of slumming, learning to smoke a cigarette. And you thought – well, you thought more of what I did than I meant. You were kind to me. You’ve never been anything but.” 

Greg looked at him, expressionless, but hardly a blank slate. Mycroft could have read him, figured out exactly what he was thinking, but for some reason, didn’t. Greg’s fingers were still, he hardly breathed. 

The porch fell silent, save for the music and laughter from the pub, and soon enough, the door opened. Percy, Marcus, and Charles fell out, settling their coats and scarves around them like feathers. 

“I say,” said Percy again, disgruntled and disconcerted. “It’s bloody cold out here, they could at least have stood you a drink after cleaning their loo.” 

“Sod off, you can clean my toilet, you arse,” said Charles. “You’re the one who made the mess we had to clean up.” 

“Hardly my fault they can’t pick up after themselves, but what do you expect from—” 

“Percy,” said Mycroft, warningly, and for a moment, Percy looked chastised. His eyes darted from Mycroft to Greg and back again, and then he was off once more. 

“Disgusting, that’s all,” he said, and Mycroft wasn’t sure if he meant the state of the lavatory or anything else. But his tone was lighter, and he frowned at the street. “Where’s there a taxi when you need one?” 

“Try the main road,” said Greg. 

“Come on, old chap,” said Marcus, and with Percy slung between them, he and Charles started to make their way to the main road. “Coming, Holmes?” 

“Yes, in a moment.” 

They were halfway down the road when Greg spoke again. “You could go now.” 

It was dismissal; Mycroft recognized it. He’d heard it often enough, though not from Greg, and coming from him, it didn’t sting half as much as it did from anyone else. There was something to that, Mycroft, thought, though he had no idea what it might be. 

Greg stood in the lamplight, back straight, fingers holding the empty beer glass. Mycroft itched to read him, and still held back. 

“Good night, then,” said Mycroft, and Greg tipped his head in response. 

The taxi was waiting for him on the main road, and Mycroft fell in behind Charles. 

“Who was your friend?” asked Marcus. 

“No one in particular,” said Mycroft. 

“That wasn’t nearly as wretched as I thought it would be,” said Percy suddenly. “We should find another pub and do that again sometime.” 

“Sod off,” said Charles, and Mycroft listened to them bicker the rest of the way back to university. 

* 

Greg didn’t kiss like he was distracted, Mycroft thought later. No matter what the man might have thought of it afterwards, he had kissed Mycroft as if he had known exactly what he was doing. 

Mycroft supposed that he probably had. 

 

 

_Four_

There were times that Mycroft didn’t actually believe that Sherlock had matured past the age of eleven. He was thirty years old, but he still had the energy of a child, and the child’s expectation that any clever thing that came out of his mouth would be instantly admired. 

“They don’t _listen_ to me, Mycroft,” fumed Sherlock, following Mycroft out of the police station. “I _told_ them it was the delivery man, and if they’d just looked, they would have seen it, and I wasn’t _trespassing_ —” 

“You were behind the police lines, Sherlock,” said Mycroft, tired. “Police lines are meant to keep the public _out_ of restricted areas.” 

Sherlock huffed. 

“And don’t huff at me, you _are_ the public.” 

“It was the delivery man,” snapped Sherlock, still sulking. Mycroft saw Sherlock wrap his coat around himself tightly, and his heart hurt a little to see his brother starting to turn inward. It wasn’t a good sign; it brought back too many glum memories. “If they’d only just _looked_.” 

“Calling the lot of them blithering idiots and denouncing the intelligence of their mothers is hardly going to award you with their attention,” said Mycroft. 

“Oh, are you the police department too, now?” countered Sherlock. “I’m sorry, I thought you only ran the legislative area of government, not the protective services.” 

“Sherlock,” warned Mycroft. “I have a great deal of work to be done by the end of the week, and I really cannot afford to continue coming to your rescue every time you feel the need to insert yourself where you are not wanted.” 

Sherlock’s response was to kick the door. 

“Oi, you can’t do that!” came the voice from behind them, and both Mycroft and Sherlock turned. Sherlock very likely to do it again, out of sheer pique, and Mycroft to apologize, as usual. 

Mycroft recognized him immediately, and went still. 

Greg Lestrade, a suit without a tie, hair already leaning more toward grey than not but still cut close in a military-esque cut. Racing down the hall, holding a sheath of papers in his hand, only to stop dead when he saw Mycroft, staring back. 

Sherlock glanced from one to the other, mind clicking away. Mycroft could practically hear it. He ignored it. 

“Hullo,” said Greg. 

“Hello,” said Mycroft. 

“Well, this is fascinating,” said Sherlock. 

“He’s your brother?” Greg asked Mycroft. “I might have known, can’t be that many Sherlocks in the world.” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I am impressed you remember at all – seventeen years, is it?” 

“More since I saw him,” said Greg. “And he’s a bit taller now.” 

“And no longer covered in leaves,” agreed Mycroft. 

“Oh, Christ, you _know_ each other?” groaned Sherlock. 

“Respectably boring government desk work?” Greg asked Mycroft. 

“Of course,” said Mycroft. “I thought you weren’t interested in London.” 

Greg shrugged, with a bit of a smile. “The world changed, I changed with it. Still pal around with those berks from the pub?” 

Mycroft returned the smile. “As you say. The world, and I with it.” 

“That’s…good to hear,” said Greg. 

“This has been lovely,” said Sherlock in the bright and bored tone Mycroft recognized as really meaning, “I’m done now”. “And I’m sure you both fancy a lovely chat in which to catch up, but _Mycroft_ , I’m sure you have to save the country from collapsing in on itself and the good detective inspector here should probably go back to banging his head against the wall, it might knock some sense into him. 

“It was the delivery man,” said Greg, still looking at Mycroft. 

“Oh, good, you figured that out all by yourself?” asked Sherlock, petulant. “That makes my arrest much more worthwhile.” 

“He’s in custody,” continued Greg. “We’re questioning him now.” 

“I want to talk to him.” 

“No,” said Greg. 

“But—” 

“No.” 

“If you just—” 

“No.” 

“Can I at least _listen_?” 

Greg appeared to think about it. 

“If you behave,” allowed Greg. 

Mycroft sighed to show his doubt that such an occurrence was possible. 

“Leave it,” said Sherlock scathingly to Mycroft, and straightened his collar. He walked back down the hallway, past Mycroft and Greg, still looking at each other. “Let’s get on with it, I haven’t got all day.” 

“Yes, you do,” said Mycroft, and Greg’s mouth quirked. 

Mycroft wasn’t sure why he asked. Maybe it was the way Greg was smiling at him, or maybe it had to do with further annoying an already impatient Sherlock. 

“I believe I owe you a cigarette,” said Mycroft. 

“I do fancy a fag, yeah,” said Greg with a grin. “I can take a mo, if now’s a good time?” 

From behind Greg, Sherlock let out a squawk of indignation. 

“I rather think it is,” said Mycroft. 

* 

Lancelot had it wrong. There wasn’t use in pining over a love one wasn’t ever going to have. 

But then again…some things were worth the wait.


End file.
